Annette put down the cake she was fingering, and, looking up through darkened lashes, said:
“Shall I give Maman any message?”
“My regards.”
Annette stretched herself, her hands on her waist, and said in French:
“What luck that you have never loved me, Soames!” Then rising, she too left the room. Soames was glad she had spoken it in French—it seemed to require no dealing with. Again that other face—pale, dark-eyed, beautiful still! And there stirred far down within him the ghost of warmth, as from sparks lingering beneath a mound of flaky ash. And Fleur infatuated with her boy! Queer chance! Yet, was there such a thing as chance? A man went down a street, a brick fell on his head. Ah! that was chance, no doubt. But this! “Inherited,” his girl had said. She—she was “holding on”!
PART III
I.—OLD JOLYON WALKS
Twofold impulse had made Jolyon say to his wife at breakfast “Let's go up to Lord's!”